Castle of Dreams
by Callisto Callispi
Summary: [WIP] We are trapped we are so frightened. The castle where the deadliest nightmares and sweetest dreams come true is driving us mad. Heaven help us...but does it exist here? Hermione & Draco.
1. Voices of the Dead Trying to Live

**Author's Notes**: Edited to synchronize the chapters with a bigger, better storyline. Don't worry, folks. I'm not abandoning _The Passion of Hate and Love_ by posting this fic. It will be finished, even if I have to push myself!

**Disclaimers**: This is the only time I will say this so pay attention! I DON'T OWN HARRY POTTER OR HOLD ANY RIGHTS TO IT. And know that what ever you recognize regarding song lyrics, they aren't my property unless by pure coincidence.

* * *

**Castle of Dreams**  
Chapter 1: Voices of the Dead Trying to Live  
By Callisto Callispi

Dead whispers sighed the mournful song. "_Can you hear them sing? Can you hear the children's song?"_

The haunting choir of high-voiced innocents softened the deadly stillness of the cobweb-ridden banquet halls. The old paintings of the ladies and gentlemen who once attended these halls seemed to close their eyes in fond, wistful recollection.

"_We are the music makers. We are the dreamer of dreams."_

And the voices traveled up the forgotten stairs, not minding the patches of dried blood and wine stains on the dulled burgundy rug. The chipped banisters hummed along with the children, tentatively. The voices grew a slight bit louder, encouraged by the rhythmic creaking of the stairs.

"_And we are born innocent. Borne of angels of the heavens... My deliverer is coming. My deliverer is coming by._

The voices swayed in harmony with the musty chandeliers. The diamond baubles tinkled quietly with the phantom breeze.

CREAK. CREAK. TINKLE. CREAK. CREAK. TINKLE.

"_Cast away the shadow. Welcome the light of our Father. We wait, oh Lord. We wait..."_

Voices echoed down the Hall of Horrors like a spectral vision. Amid the faded screams and the jaded moans, the children's voice grew strong. The tattered, soiled cream curtains oscillated gently like the white and brown wave of the stained ocean, inviting the innocents' light and purity. These halls had been sullied for far too long in this rotting darkness.

"_Make me a witness, and take me out of out of darkness and doubt --"_

But a great rumble from the shadows silenced the children. The curtains dropped from their dance with a heavy thump. The banisters grew silent. The chandeliers ceased their charming tinkling. What little bit of light that had eroded away the darkness was pushed back by a new landslide of shadows.

But the children would not give up that easily. They had been captive here for too long. Far too long. "_Heaven holds a sense of wonder, and I want to --"_

But they fell short of their words. That little aura of white purity, the last remaining whiteness in this damned castle shrieked. The deep rumble of an earthquake overwhelmed their small, trembling voices. And like a panther pouncing on its prey, the shadow reached out its hand and squelched the children's' voice within its black fingers.

Their soft screams filled the dusty air. The cry of small children slowly being choked to death. The draperies shivered, the stairs moaned quietly with pain, and the walls sighed with forlorn hope. Squeals, quiet sobs, cries for angels. The very castle trembled with their chiming, pained voices. But still, the shadow was relentless. And tighter and tighter it squeezed until what was left of the children's' voices was nothing but the fading tail of a distant shooting star. One last sparkle...and fizzpth. Out. Like a dead light bulb.

Deafening terror reigned the castle again. Terror...and silence.

**-x-x-**

Hermione bolted straight up in her bed, screaming. Nothing but darkness. Their crying voices echoed in her mind like a broken record. "_He-he-he-ll- hell-hell-hell-ellp-elp u-u-u-u-u-u-s-s-s-s..."_ And in that same damned melody that same tune.

She screamed again as she something shoot out in front of her in the pitch-blackness of night. Hands. Oh, God. HANDS!

"Let me be, you wretched demon! Let me be!" Hermione shrieked in her bed, kicking the covers and flailing her hands wildly. The hands made their way up her face, to her mouth. Hermione screamed for help. Like the children. "_Hell-hell-hell-hell-elp-elp u-u-u-u-s-s-s-s..."_

"_HERMIONE_! Have you gone _mad_!"

Hermione froze. She knew that voice. "Lavndpher?" Hermione whispered against the girl's hand.

Golden light suddenly flooded the room. Hermione cringed at the unexpected brightness. Lavender Brown stood sat in front of Hermione, her usually tanned face white and her eyes wide. She was breathing heavily.

"Bloody hell, Hermione. What's the matter with you? You...you seemed like you were possessed or something."

Hermione stared around her room, puzzled yet anxious. She gripped her sheets so tightly that her knuckles were white. The hand in the darkness. Lavender's hand. She attempted to calm her breathing, but it did not work. That dream. It was so _real_!

"I...I had a dream. A horrible dream," Hermione stuttered quietly. Lavender fell back on the bed, her hands to her chest.

"You scared the living shit out of me, Hermione. Did you know that? Screaming like the bloody ghost of Christmas past was chasing after you or something. My God. There goes my beauty sleep."

Hermione blinked. She remembered where she was now, and why she wasn't in her usual room at Hogwarts.

"I knew Romania would be like this. Especially after that last castle we visited. Remember that haunted one? Bloody damn. If that place isn't possessed, I don't know what is."

Ah. This was her field trip for her NEWT class in Theory of Haunts and Spooks.

Lavender propped herself up on her elbows and stared curiously at Hermione. Hermione managed a weak smile. "I'm sorry, Lavender. I...I was just delusional for a moment there...you know. Caught up in the fog of that...nightmare."

Lavender's forehead creased. "Lucky these hotel walls are so thick. Otherwise, the professors would have been up here by now."

Hermione nodded shakily. "You're not sleepy?"

Lavender shook her head. "Not after all that. And besides, it's five-thirty. Two hours earlier than our usual wake-up time, but oh well. We'll just be the first one down to breakfast, won't we?"

Hermione responded with a nod once more, trying to control her trembling hands. Oh, those children. Those bodiless phantom children.

"Hermione..."

She looked up.

"What was your dream about?"

Hermione's eyes widened. For a moment, she thought she saw something dancing in the shadow. Like a specter of a ballerina... Her breath quickened. Was she going mad?

"Hermione?"

"Nothing," she replied quickly. And the dancer danced away into oblivion. Nothing. "It was something stupid really. You know. Monsters in the dark. Chasing after...me. It's...it's just like any ordinary...nightmare."

Lavender stared at Hermione skeptically for a few seconds. Then she shrugged and got off the bed. "Whatever you say, Hermione. Well, I'd better freshen up. Come on. We've got to look our best."

Hermione slid out from under her covers and asked suspiciously, "Why?"

Lavender grinned. "Oh. Didn't you hear? Draco Malfoy is in Hottsgobin Tower with us, which means that Professor Jethro will be there too."

Ah, the famous Professor Jethro.

Hermione snorted, squeezing toothpaste onto her toothbrush. "Take care with him, Lavender. He's a professor."

Lavender smirked. "You know me."

Hermione eyed her friend warily. "That's what I mean."

Lavender laughed in return and turned away. "Oh, don't worry your silly little head over me, Hermione. Anyway, you'll be occupied enough with Malfoy on your tail during the session. He's angry, you know. After you got a higher grade than him on that test."

As soon as Lavender walked out, Hermione shook her head and resumed brushing her teeth. _Malicious Draco Malfoy trying to shove me into a dark basement,_ Hermione mused, wondering how he would make her life miserable this time around. _So what's new._ Ever since last year, Malfoy had been even more annoying than ever, taking up an almost comical obsession over studying that countered Hermione's own fanaticism over grades.

Since then, Hermione's life had been an almost unbearable bundle of stress. As if she hadn't had enough to worry over, such as the rise(s) of the Dark Lord, frequent attempts on Harry's life, balancing NEWT classes, and other situations, she now had to maintain perfect grades in face of competition, from the person she hated most, no less!

But Hermione had not let her grades slip once and always just bested Malfoy on practically everything.

But still, it was difficult. If only he would just...disappear. My, wouldn't it be wonderful if Draco Malfoy were trapped in the attic and was never able to get out? Hermione's thoughts had become malicious ones as of late, and though it disturbed her greatly, her anger seemed more than justified when it came to Draco Malfoy.

But she was worried. She wedged the toothbrush into her mouth. Such ugly thoughts. Such ugly desires.

The villagers had a saying here: what you think you become.

_Such ugliness brewing beneath her innocent, doe-eyed face. She sometimes dreamt that her face was nothing but a mask._ Hermione shoved the toothbrush bristles harder and harder against her gums. _The dreams scared her sometimes. Hands always shot toward her, pulling at her skin, and Hermione would scream and scream until her voice turned raw and suddenly, a high-pitched scream, a monster's scream, would shatter the glass floor beneath her._ Pink foamed her mouth as her gums broke against the toothbrush and started to bleed. It dribbled down her chin. _She would flap her arms, trying to fly, but she always fell into the dark oblivion, that monster's cry (her cry) rang in her ears. The hands still reached for her face, tearing off her skin inch by inch until nothing but a burning pain remained. She caught her reflection in the pieces of shattered glass, and the face of a bat with large, green glowing eyes stared back at her, laughing and laughing as she screamed and fell into the dark place, and one day, Hermione knew, she would fall so deep that she would never be able to return..._

Hermione gasp and spit the toothpaste foam out of her mouth, groaning slightly and massaging her swollen gums with her tongue. What was getting into her these days?

_That bat in the glass, face so hideous and a nose like a pig's snout but yet so strangely human..._

Hermione looked up in the mirror. Her eyes widened and she dropped her toothbrush into the marble sink.

CLATTER.

_CREAK. CREAK. TINKLE. CREAK. CREAK. TINKLE..._

"Oh my... _what_?"

Hermione whipped around, the white skirt of her nightgown billowing out like a phantom fog. Nothing. Nothing but the bathtub and the toilet.

Hesitantly, she picked up her toothbrush again, staring suspiciously into the mirror.

"_Hell-hell-hell-hell-elp-elp-lp..."_

It was strange...

Hermione could have sworn she saw a child's face looming in the mirror only a moment ago...

But with a flap of leathery wings, it had disappeared and left Hermione staring into her own horrified reflection.

* * *

**End Notes**: Erm. Satanic. Strange. I'm a twisted piece of work. And this is only the beginning folks! More Draco and Hermione content in the next chapter...when they both get thrown into the realm of the castle of dreams! Muahahahaha! 


	2. The Madness of Hottsgobin

**Author's Notes**: _Castle of Dreams_ is a story that I turn to when I'm in a particularly dark mood. So updates will be erratic. :) 

**For news regarding this fic and POHAL, go to my LiveJournal.**

Newly rated M (or R). Sorry -- in the future, this story will contain very adult themes, so I decided to change my rating before fanfiction . net boots me. Will include: blood, mild rape, insanity, Satanism, ghosts, sharp objects and death. 

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**Castle of Dreams**   
Chapter 2: The Madness of Hottsgobin   
By Callisto Callispi

_Tap. Tap_

Footsteps in the deafening dark. 

_Tap. Tap._

Droplets of blood on the stone-cold floor. 

_Tap. Tap._

A child's fist rapping at the window. 

And all the while, she wrapped her arms around the knees drawn up to her hollow chest. Breasts once full and round now sagged in wasted youth. 

_Tap. Tap._

What was that sound? It was incessant. 

Brown hair now limp hung down her pale, almost-blue face in twisted tendrils. Bald in some places of her scalp, she barely breathed while toying with the strands of jagged hair clung between her fingers. Brown, murky water stained the silk of her sleeping robes, slowly veining the whiteness like untamed branches of a tree. Water centuries old. Water that she had once drunken with pleasure. 

_Tap. Tap._

She hugged her knees more tightly to her breasts and rocked back and forth on her bony buttocks. The ground was hard and cold. She hid in the corner of the spacious dining hall, watching blindly as the shadows slowly seeped into the castle through the cracks and creases from the netherworld. 

Dust and grime defiled the room. Spider servants scurried about the abandoned halls of the castle on his bidding. Old memories haunted the ball room, the kitchen, and the lounge. She observed the phantoms. They laughed in their tattered suits and gowns. Their heels, spiked with daggers, spun dangerously around the cracked marble halls. How they laughed. They laughed in the same manner as they had laughed when enjoying the bear-baiting. 

_Mouths open wide as if to devour the fresh flesh of the beast, teeth sharp and ready to bite . . . _

Sleep was impossible. He always was there. _ALWAYS_. Biting her, loving her, kicking her. Always. 

_Ugly sounds. The sick ripping of her dress. Screams of horror._

Thousands upon thousands of visions and scenes, flashed before her eyes in one second. Too much to see, too much to feel. He had powers. Mad powers. He had seduced her into her own madness with poison-dripping lips. 

Hollow black eyes slowly opened. She supposed her eyes used to be lighter, more gay. Death and nothing more now. 

The child had died. It rushed out of her, as if unwanting to endure one moment longer in her womb. A filthy miscarriage that was -- nothing but a tangle of misshapen bones, slimy blood, and rope-like arteries. It could have been beautiful . . . if it only endured six more months. She was surprised that she still bled after that sickening tragedy. But she was married to the devil himself. How else did she expect the fetus to turn out? 

_Tap. Tap._

It was his domain. This castle, this 'home' of theirs, was just hell prettied up. Black stained the skin underneath her eyes. No sleep. No sleep. Because if she slept, _he_ would find her. Always find her. As she ran through this increasingly dark labyrinth, he always found her when she slept. She gave up too much of her soul, too much of herself to him to ever be truly free. 

Lips once full and sensual, the lips that teased the devil into submission, were now flaked with dried skin and sores. Hands that had tapped the piano keys with irresistible grace were mangled, broken beyond repair. She would never feel the keys of the piano on her fingertips again. 

Hottsgobin Tower, he called this home. No. Not Hottsgobin. HELL. Hell dressed up as the home of an obscure, mad, twisted man. A place to lure in young women and men for his enjoyment. Sick sexual pleasures did he practice. But she was special . . . at least for a while. She had been special, his unfortunate favorite. 

_Tap. Tap._

He was nearing. Oh, heaven help her. God, in all of his pure glory, help her. But . . . did heaven exist in this place? 

Doors flew open. And at once she knew the jaws of hell were ready to consume her. 

**

-x-x-

**

"That's so twisted, though!" a Ravenclaw girl noted as soon as the professor stopped talking. 

Professor Jethro looked surprised. His dark eyebrows shot up. "Twisted? Well, I suppose you are right. But it was real. It all happened." 

The little crowd of students murmured amongst themselves. It was frightening, the capacity of the human mind. But one person was not so easily perturbed. 

"So you're saying that she really believed all of this, that her husband was the devil and that this whole castle was hell?" a skeptical voice demanded. 

All eyes shifted towards the speaker. Draco Malfoy's eyes were narrowed in disbelief. 

"Yes," Professor Jethro said calmly, coldly. He had never taken a liking to Draco. "At least, that's what the records left behind by her physician claim. She suffered from incredible madness of the mind. And her husband tried to help her in every way he could. He would bring in the best doctors from London and Paris and have them look at his ailing wife. But she was unable to be helped." 

The girls whispered amongst each other. The boys shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably, eyeing the musty corners of the castle with apprehension. 

It was a grand ball room, and once, it would have been beautiful. Draco's pale eyes flickered toward the nearly shattered chandeliers, the cracked marble floor, and the shredded tapestries. Dust filmed this ancient room. It looked almost charming in an antiquated kind of fashion -- something out of yore. 

"Amazing, isn't it," the professor addressed the tentative students. All twelve heads snapped towards the ringing shock of his voice. "Rumors have it that her spirit still haunts this place, despite her death only two hundred years ago." 

"But professor, how did the woman die? Was it her own doing?" rung in another voice. All heads turned towards Hermione Granger, who was standing near the back of the group, arm linked tightly with Lavender's. Lavender looked frightened out of her wits by this story, but Hermione maintained her calm composure. "I mean, the death of a person contributes greatly with . . . well, the reason behind the haunting." 

Professor Jethro smiled fondly in Hermione's direction and marked something in the little pocket book he had in his hand. Hermione suppressed a small smile. Draco glared. Goody-two shoes mudblood. Teacher's pet. 

"Excellent question, Miss Granger. You've hit just my point," said Professor Jethro with a nod of approval. "Five points to Gryffindor." 

Hermione beamed and shot a nasty look towards Draco. Draco glared angrily in return and mouthed 'mudblood' at her. She didn't seem to care very much at the moment. 

"Actually, her death was self-imposed. She locked herself in this very room and refused to see anyone -- not even the servants who tried to coax her out." The professor's eyes darkened. "They did everything. Her husband was mad with grief. Some people claim that his angry voice still rings about these halls at night, his pleads for his beloved wife to open the door." 

Draco studied the professor's face carefully. The man seemed on the verge of tears. His jaw was tightened as if he himself was recalling something atrocious. 

"But she refused, claiming her husband as being the devil. They finally broke open the door. That door right there --" 

(And twelve heads snapped toward the great oaken doors that lay haphazardly against the back wall.) 

"-- is the very door that the lady of this castle barred herself behind." The professor sighed. "When they found her, she was in that corner there, huddled in a ball, dead. She stayed in there too long. She starved to death in her own madness." 

Silence clung to the shadows seeping in through the windows. Each student hardly breathed, their eyes wide with fright. All except for Draco Malfoy. He rolled his eyes but remained silent. 

_A load of horseshit_, he thought disdainfully. He leaned back on the balls of his feet, wondering how much longer until dinner. 

"This is so freaky," Lavender murmured. 

"And why is that, Miss Brown?" asked the professor with a charming smile. 

Draco stared curiously at Lavender, a bit shocked at what he saw. Her face was pale, paler than her bronze, summer-sun complexion. Even Hermione seemed a bit worried. Indeed, why was this so strange for her? 

Then she said the words that chilled them all. 

"I think I just saw a child smiling at me." 

**-x-x-**

"Lavender, are you sure you're all right?" Hermione demanded. She handed Lavender a cup of steaming hot lemon tea. The other girls stared at Lavender with worried looks. Hermione sighed and rubbed Lavender's back soothingly. The chatter of the cafe helped, but, even as she was consoling another, Hermione couldn't help thinking back on what Lavender said. 

_"I think I just saw a child smiling at me."_

The child. Black fingers. Gasps. Hermione felt sick. 

"Calm down, Lavender," Mary, a girl in Ravenclaw, said to Lavender with a small smile. "I mean, the hotel is completely spook-free. Ten exorcists made sure it was. There is absolutely no way that _anything_ you saw in that horrible castle will haunt you. I mean, remember that Professor Jethro is a Class A exorcist. With a degree." 

"Yeah," Elizabeth, a Hufflepuff girl added, popping a strawberry into her mouth. "I mean, if he can't keep the ghosts away, the ghosts aren't ghosts. Then it's like the devil or something." 

The words chilled Hermione's blood. There was no way that she conjured up last night's dream on her own. She had been certain that a restless phantom was playing tricks on her. Could it be possible -- no. No. Too many haunt sites. She just had an overactive imagination. That was all. 

"Oh yes, did you hear?" Mary asked, leaning in. Her eyes sparkled with intrigue. "I hear that horrible Marsh girl, the one in Slytherin, is hot for Professor Jethro." 

Lavender seemed to snap out of her stupor. "No!" 

Marie nodded. She looked around, just to make sure no body was listening, then continued. "I heard she sent him a box of Love-Me-Now chocolates!" 

Elizabeth gaped. 

"One bite of those and he'll be tailing her like a bee would to honey! That bitch!" Lavender hissed. "Spoiled rich bitch! Can't play fair now, can she?" 

"Do Slytherins every play fair?" sniffed Elizabeth. She stared longingly at Professor Jethro who was currently immersed in a thick novel. Hermione glanced at him as well. 

"How does that man manage to look sexy even with glasses?" sighed Elizabeth. 

"Does anyone here know how old he is?" Lavender asked. 

The remaining three girls shook their heads. 

"You know, it's sort of strange," Hermione spoke up. "I mean, why would a man so young like him want to teach now? Shouldn't he be at a magical university, earning another degree or something?" 

Lavender grinned crookedly. "Who the hell cares now? Remember, Hermione. If he's at a university, then he wouldn't be teaching us now, would he?" 

Hermione smiled languidly but did not respond. Instead, she kept her gaze on the professor, unable to look away. As the other girls chattered over other various males, Hermione's eyes silently trailed down the professor's chiseled features. His naturally tan skin set off his pale green eyes with shocking beauty. A mop of wavy black hair fell gracefully over his eyes. Handsome hands held the large novel against a lean thigh. His slender fingers traced the words. 

_This is indecent. You can't stare at a professor like that. Look away!_

But strangely, no matter how much she wanted to, Hermione could not look away. And it wasn't because she found him unnaturally beautiful. No, not at all. It seemed as if something was forcing her eyes to remain on the professor's figure. Beads of sweat popped out of her skin. God, what was happening? 

And then a jolt of lightning struck her heart. Pale green eyes, as sharp as a feline's, looked slowly up from the book and stared directly into Hermione's own. She stifled a gasp, trying not to cringe. 

_I intrigue you, don't I?_ the clatter of the silverware whispered. _I enchant you, my lady of knowledge. I hold the epitome of your life in my hands._

Epitome? 

_This book. Come read it. It's . . . interesting, truly. And there's so much to know. Come with me, Hermione. Come with me -- I will show you things that no mortal has ever seen before._

"Hermione?" 

_So many things. You want to know so much. And yet, you're so restricted by these mortal boundaries with which you were cursed. So many desires unfulfilled . . ._

"HERMIONE!" 

It was as if a bludger slammed into her forehead. She reeled backwards into Lavender, almost knocking both of them out of their chairs. Such an aching pain . . . how it spread through out her body and mind. Heat erupted within her heart and slowly slid into her limbs. She felt as if she were being thawed in hot water. Suddenly, she felt cold . . . so cold. Her teeth began to chatter. Goosepimples crawled up over her arms. 

"What is the matter with you?" Lavender demanded, pale and frightened, as she and Hermione settled back into their chairs. 

Hermione's breathing was shallow and rapid. So cold. She felt like a living corpse crawling up from nine feet under to find herself in a snow-covered graveyard. "I don't know," she whispered. "I just don't know." 

"I'm leaving," Elizabeth said suddenly. Her eyes were wide open, the color drained from her cheeks. "I hate this trip. I hate this subject. I'm leaving for England tomorrow." 

"But this is a huge project --" Mary protested. 

"I don't give a flying fuck!" she snapped. Elizabeth stood up and tightened the scarf around her neck. 

Hermione watched her with dull eyes, trying to rid the thought of that scarf. Why did it seem so much like a rope? _Take caution, Elizabeth. In the name of all things good, take caution with that scarf . . ._

They watched Elizabeth walk defiantly out of the golden cafe and into the smoggy darkness of the winter night. Mary heaved a great sigh and leaned back in her chair. 

"We're losing it. Even Elizabeth. Four haunt sites. _Four_! Not much at all. But the stories behind it, the _feeling_ . . ." 

The three stirred their silver spoons in their cups, watching the tea quietly as it swirled around. Hermione risked another glance up in the professor's direction. She jerked in surprise when he wasn't there. "Lavender . . . where is the professor? Wasn't he just sitting there a moment ago?" 

"He left, remember? A long time ago. Right after we mentioned those Love-Me-Now chocolates." 

Hermione froze, her heart momentarily skipping a beat. What was going on? He was sitting there only a second ago! What the hell . . . 

"Oh damn it all!" Lavender cried after rummaging into her bag. "I left my project materials in that Hottsgobin place!" 

Hermione stared at her watch. "It's only five-thirty. The officials might not have closed up the castle yet." 

Lavender shook her head furiously. "No way will I go there in the dark, even if the professor was with me. No fucking way." 

_Knowledge. I can show you things that no mortal has ever seen before . . ._

Haziness overtook her body. Numbness seeped into her fingers, entrapping her against her own mind. But how calm this cold was. How beautifully serene . . . 

"I'll get it for you," Hermione said as she stood up suddenly from her seat. Without another look back, she headed back out into the winter night, half-aware of the madness of her answer. 

**

-x-x-

**

The tower loomed in the darkness. It shot straight up, scraping the sky with its pointed rooves and canopies. Shades of red smeared the sky. Of course it was because of the setting sun. Plenty of scientific reasons for the redness of the sun in the evening: droplets of water, light, the angle of light emerging from the prism of water, the time it takes to reach the eyes . . . No reason to think that the sky bled because of Hottsgobin's knife-like appendages. Hermione stared at the sky before stepping into the door. But why did it resembled blood so much? 

Inside was musty. Dirty, dusty shadows choked the receiving room. Hermione paused as she felt something squish under her feet. She stared down, uttering a scream then clapping her hands over her mouth as that same scream bounced off the wet stone walls of the tower. Her footsteps echoed hauntingly as she ran away from the age-old corpse of a rat still preserved rather perfectly in this warm, musty atmosphere. 

And awakened from its slumber, the black thing followed, tickling the nape of her neck with its frigid tenderness. 

Hermione did not know where she ran to. Fear and revulsion tailed her like the hounds of hell. Those chills. Why wouldn't they leave her as she left the rat? She kept running. She never stopped running. She ran up the stairs and into various hallways, tearing her hands through thin sheets of dust-ridden cobwebs. She dared not look behind for she knew that if she did, she would faint. 

Something pursued her. _The black thing._ Not the rat. The rat was only the last straw. Something much more vile, more evil, more _terrifying_. 

Darkness thickened like stew. Her legs felt heavier as she trodded through this inhuman void, yet she never stopped. Screams and moans echoed behind her -- versions of her own screams. It was a _shadow_ that chased her, her own shadow. 

_The children._

It was the shadow that killed the children! 

What was that? 

Hermione's eyes widened. Arms. Arms in the dark! She screamed a bloodcurdling scream as those same arms caught her in mid-run and threw her against a wall. Even with the breath soundly knocked out of her, she whimpered, tears streaming down freely down her cheeks. "Don't kill me, please don't kill --" 

"Granger! Snap out of it!" 

Hermione opened her eyes. Silence. No screams, no moans. Everything was silent. Whoever held her against the wall -- that person chased the shadow away. For now. 

"Who . . ." 

Then startling gray pierced into brown. His eyes. She knew those eyes. 

"Malfoy?" she asked in a throaty whisper. Her whole frame shook. 

"Yes." 

"What are you doing here?" 

"Shut up, for now. I promise I'll tell you later." 

And even in this darkness, Hermione wanted to snap that his word was not worth even a fraction of a knut to her. But then, the floor vibrated slightly under her feet. Noise. A chime. She kept silent, daring not to breathe. Below, the haunting chimes of a grandfather clock, still working after those many years, bellowed out the hour. Strange -- it didn't stop after the sixth ring as it should have. 

_BONG. BONG. BONG._

Hermione grabbed Draco's shirt and pulled him closer to her. She felt his heart thudding furiously against her palm. He was frightened -- just as she was. 

_BONG. BONG. BONG._

_It should stop now,_ she thought. _The twelfth hour._

But it didn't. 

_BONG._

What? 

The thirteenth hour? 

Hermione stopped breathing for everything swirled around her feet. Laughter followed. Maniac laughter. The laughter of a man, of a woman, and of a child. Laughing, so much laughing! It shook the walls, trembled the very core of her soul. 

"Malfoy . . ." she whispered as she felt the strength seeping out of her. 

But he did not answer for he slipped from her arms and collapsed onto the floor. His face shined like new marble against the hazy crimson of the rug. 

"_He call this his castle of dreams . . ._" a small, broken voice whispered. 

Hermione did not have a chance to speak. Her knees gave out. And with a heavy thud, Hermione too fell to the ground; but just before drifting off into unconsciousness, she thought she saw the pale face of a screaming woman tearing her hair out, blood smearing her scalp. 

_Help me,_ Hermione thought as her eyes closed. _Someone please help me . . . _

* * *

**End Notes**: Yay! I finally finished this chapter! And after only two-and-a-half months! You can't believe how hard it is to write this story, but I'm liking the way things are going. Stay tuned for the next chapter where Hermione and Draco wake up in the castle of dreams. 


	3. The Monster

**Author's Notes**: Gah, I'm so sorry for not updating this fiction sooner. But school and real life butted in. They tend to do that, the two bastards. Anyway, I'm so pleased with the feedback that I'm getting! I truthfully expected two to three reviews for each chapter, but this is so much better! I suppose horror appeals to more people than I had thought. :) Thanks so much for your support! 

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**Castle of Dreams**   
Chapter 3: The Monster   
By Callisto Callispi

_"Come here." _

Hermione shook her head, averting her eyes almost shyly from the man who offered her his hand. 

"Come now, darling." 

Still, she shook her head, backing into the hungry shadows. She heard the music -- heard how chiming it was. A child sang it, and it sounded like the voice of heaven itself. But Hermione felt strange, just accepting that white hand. It was so white and smooth and yet pulsing so that she did not know whether that the man wore gloves or not. And besides, did she even know the man? Did she even trust him? Did he even…love her? 

Love her? What in the world was she thinking about? She hardly knew this man! 

"You don't want to?" he asked, his face in shadows so that she couldn't tell if the remorse tingeing his voice was true or false. 

Hermione shook her head, gasping as she took a step forward toward him. Damn. Damn! Her feet, as if some magnetic force pulled her body along, were taking small steps toward him. Damn it, damn him! He was doing this to her! 

"Oh, God, darling. Don't resist. Please. I…love you." 

Unbidden tears flooded Hermione's eyes. A sadness she did not feel welled up in her body. I love you too, her mouth wanted her to say. But Hermione knew that she didn't love him. She didn't even know who he was. 

"D-darling," she whispered. Hermione was horrified, and yet her feet carried her toward the mystery man. The man hidden by the shadows whose white hand, gloved or not, was trembling with anticipation, with desire, with hunger. "Darling," Hermione said once more, a bit more loudly. Her feet. Her arms. They stepped, stretched toward that man. Damn him! Damn him to hell! It was so hard to hold back, this desire, this pounding longing. 

"DARLING!" she cried, her voice broken with sobs, and Hermione ran toward that man and leapt right into his arms… 

**-x-x-**

When Hermione opened her eyes darkness greeted her. Then, she felt the pain in her head. A mild curse slipped from her lips as her fingers threaded in her hair in an attempt to reach the scalp. Ah, the aching. But Hermione took a few breaths, eyes closed, and slowly, the pain receded mostly through the efforts of her own will. Then she opened her eyes. 

That same looming, drafty darkness surrounded her, but Hermione knew she was inside. Placing her fingers on the ground -- carpeted finely -- she pushed herself up to her feet, finding that she felt as if she were swirling and the world in response swirled in the opposite direction from her. She stumbled about until she came to rest against a smooth wall. It felt like wood. And as she stood against that wall, trying not to gag, little bits of recollection flooded back to her. What was this place? Why the darkness? 

Sorrow. Beauty. 

The two concepts rushed to her. Hermione clutched her head as images assaulted her. Roses, glistening with diamond drops of dew. A chill autumn wind, something like cold magic under that blood-red tree. The orange and purple sky sleeping with mystery, with knowing. Tears trailing a silver streak down a reddened cheek. A waltz upon the glass floor with planets and stars glittering under their feet. The universe resting in her arms. Two strangers in that garden of tangled ivy and crimson blood, lost in the embrace of music and lust. _Here in this world is where you want to be._

And Hermione opened her eyes, thinking, _Yes, here, I feel so alive._ She was so _aware_ of every little thing. The pain she felt only intensified in this world. The thoughts were so much clearer. The desires so much stronger. Even she herself felt so attached to his world -- not heavier, at least in terms of more mass, but almost as if the gravity were stronger in this world, as if it were trying damnably hard to keep her rooted here. 

But…why? Hermione did not get any answers, even though she racked her brain for any. She hated feeling this unsure. She hated not knowing _why_ something happened. God, where was she? Why was she here in this world where gravity was skewed only for her? She could hardly jump an inch off the ground, and even walking took great effort. And why the _hell_ couldn't she see? 

Hermione gasped, feeling something suddenly materialize in her hand. It was long, hard, cylindrical, and cold. It also felt a bit slippery...almost like dried wax. She stifled a scream as the tip of that object lit up, her eyes almost burning with sudden orange light. But Hermione did not drop it, and instead held it shakingly up to her eyes. A candle. A lit candle. A candle that lit all by itself. 

What was going on? Where the was she? Like the candle, Hermione half-expected the answer to appear in her hand -- maybe a scrap of paper with a quick little note written on it, "You are in the deep bowels of the underworld. Enjoy." 

Hermione squared her shoulders, sighing, and began walking. What a morbid imagination she posessed. She ran her fingertips along the walls, finding them to be of wood rather than the stone she expected. So she wasn't in a prison, was she? Perhaps a room? Then, if this was a room, where was the door? Every room had a door. 

She walked around in the darkness. The candle, despite its brightness, could not brighten the whole room. In fact, the flame was nearly useless except for complimenting the pleasant designs of the golden carpet. But Hermione did not wish to be engulfed in darkness anymore. She hated feeling like a blind person, stumbling this way and that in total oblivion. 

Within a few minutes, she found the door. In fact, the door was actually a set of double-doors, with two elaborately carved knobs in the center. With a sudden shot of delight, she wrapped her fingers around the handle and pulled it downward, pushing against the door with her arm. It wouldn't open. 

Hermione paused. The handle worked, but the door wouldn't open. Perhaps it was stuck? But no matter how much she pushed and pulled, the doors, both of them, wouldn't open. She stamped the floor in frustration. What was this place? A fancy, _wooden_ prison? Damn it! She tried to ignore the cold fear chilling her. She tried to ignore what would happen if she never got out of this infernally dark room. 

"No, no don't think of that," she whispered. She then continued walking, hoping to find another set of doors, or better, some keys. She wanted to get out of this place. 

Suddenly, Hermione felt her foot getting caught on something heavy. She screamed as she fell to the floor, dropping the candle and sending it soaring against the wall. Hermione opened her eyes, again finding herself in a darkness more dark than before, with the candlelight out. She tried to get up, and pushed against the floor to -- 

She paused. Hermione noticed that she didn't push against the hard floor -- instead, she pushed against something firm yet soft and warm enough that… 

A body. 

Her face paled a good four shades. Then she scrambled backwards, gasping, too scared to scream. A body. A body! Her first thought was that it was a dead body, freshly killed so that its flesh was still supple and warm. But then, from that same body came a groan. Hermione felt the breath catch in her throat. That moan -- she had heard it before, somewhere, some time. 

"Fuck," the figure muttered quietly, raspily. Hermione remained quiet, scared yet curious. "Fuck," it said again. Louder, this time. 

Recognition flickered within Hermione's mind. It couldn't be. On her hands and knees, she clumsily crawled over to now-sitting form, reaching out her hand blindly to find her fingertips stroking his soft, moist hair. "Draco Malfoy?" she whispered. 

As if on instinct, he jerked away from her touch. "Who the hell are you?" 

Hermione wanted to cry. So she wasn't alone. Thank you, whatever god was up there. She wasn't alone in this place. "You're here," she managed to choke out. How relief flooded her throat so that she couldn't even speak. "I'm not alone. You're here." 

"Who are you?" he asked once more, though his voice seemed a bit softer. His fingertips reached out tentatively toward her tear-stained cheek. Strange. She didn't know she was crying. 

Then a thought struck Hermione. Did she really want to tell Malfoy who she was? He would probably curse at her and run away in the opposite direction. She blinked. Perhaps not something as extreme as that, but… Hermione dried the tears from her face and scooted back so that his fingertips did not graze her anymore. "It's me," she said quietly. "Hermione Granger." 

Silence loomed in between them. Hermione felt herself blush. She was crying in front of him. He couldn't see her tears in this darkness, but he sure as hell felt them. How mortifying. How could she lose her control in front of him like that? 

"G-Granger?" He choked this out. 

Hermione nodded, then remembered they could hardly see anything. "Y-yes." 

He remained silent for a length of time. Again. The suspense was terrible. Then he erupted. "What the hell are you -- what the hell -- what is this place! What did you do to me? What did you do to my family!" 

Family? 

"Answer me, damn you!" he screamed, nearly hysterical. "Answer me, you bitch!" 

Hermione cringed. Bitch? What was wrong with him? "Calm down, Malfoy!" 

"Calm down? Calm _down_! Like _hell_ I will! What --" 

"Shut up!" Hermione snapped suddenly. Surprisingly, Draco listened and did indeed quiet himself, though she knew he was seething. That little bastard. Didn't he think she was scared too? Insensitive worm. "I don't know what this place is, Malfoy," Hermione replied quietly, calmly, angrily. The darkness seemed so much larger now, so much more threatening. The warmth in her bones left her. A chilly draft overtook them, and Hermione slowly felt that anger of hers melting away. Instead, she felt dread. And fear. 

"Can you sense…_it_?" Draco asked her in a whisper. 

"Yes," Hermione replied quietly. "We need some light. I dropped a candle. Somewhere. When I tripped over you." 

She heard a shuffle of clothes. "I'll try to find it," he said. 

Hermione nodded and ran her hands over the carpeted floor, wondering what Malfoy had said. Family? Bitch? He had no reason to say anything like that. Were they _his_ dreams, then? Like her and that man with the white hand? Goose bumps trailed across her flesh. Hermione gasped as she felt something like a cold hand gripping the edge of her spine, twisting it, fondling it, licking it… 

"Arrrh!" she cried out, falling back down onto the ground. She curled up in a little ball, thrashing as hands held her down. As Draco held her down. But she didn't knew it was him. 

"Hold still! Granger! Damn it! What's wrong with you!" 

She kicked her legs at him. She bared her fingernails, trying to scratch that pale white skin. It was still doing it, licking the base of her spine, grazing its sharp teeth over it, running its tongue over the nerve endings, paralyzing each one with its honeyed saliva. She felt its progress from her spine, her actual spine wrapped around with layers of arteries, and toward her stomach. He licked there too, the squishy bag that held the acids that broke up her food, and instead of disgust, she felt a sudden spasm of warmth and an oozing sensation of pleasure. He had drawn blood inside of her body, and she liked it. What twisted lovemaking was this? The hot, steaming blood streaked through out her body, poisoning her, pleasuring her. It shot down her thighs, spreading them further. It shot up her arms, forcing them around her lover's shoulders, drawing him and his fingers close to her naked body. The blood shot up to her head, drugging her in a haze of crimson ecstasy until she lost herself, dreaming, hallucination. Without knowing, Hermione threw her head back to scream in utter ecstasy. No pain -- just a sense of sweet poisoning, like drinking hard liquor in a snowy valley. Finally, the blood reached her vagina, and the pleasure was too much for Hermione to handle. She bucked her hips, feeling her arousal (or was it the blood that he had drawn and led?) dripping out, her mind crying for him to fill her, to slam upon her core until he bruised her from within, just as he was doing now. 

And the hands held her pinned onto the ground. The bed. He wouldn't let go of her. 

"Please," she cried breathlessly as his hands tore off her chemise. "Let me go. Please." 

_"Little girl. Scream for me." _

His teeth grazed the bare flesh of her breasts, pausing when his sharp canines reached the hardened peak of her nipples. Hermione threw her head back, hating herself as she felt her iron will melt and mesh with his own. His eyes, unusually yellow and red, glittered with amusement. 

What was this creature of lust? What was this creature that raped her so completely, inside and out? And he hadn't even penetrated her yet! 

And as he dipped his head down toward her abdomen, he breathed on her skin and whispered, "Come with me, Hermione. Don't resist me." 

She lay in those cushions, hair spread out on the pillow, face glistening with sweat from this sick foreplay. She wanted with all her heart to resist this bastard. She wanted to grab one of those sharp teeth in his mouth and plunge it in one of his scary-looking eyes. Hermione had no doubt that the tongue darting in and out of her vagina was lapping up the blood. Warped bastard. BASTARD! She struggled to sit up despite the pleasure clouding her head, that crimson haze in her mind -- her own blood that he manipulated with such ease. 

"G-get away…" she whispered throatily, digging her fingernails into the cushions of the bed. 

He paused, and he looked up, those eyes shining with malice and hunger. "Get…away?" he asked as if he couldn't comprehend those words, his voice surprisingly cultured and smooth. Hermione blinked, trying to catch a glimpse of his face in this thick red fog. But she only saw traces of him -- his smooth, untarnished skin; his sensually full lips; his _eyes_. 

Hermione was too weary to cry. "Get…away from me." 

"From you, dear?" he sounded amused. 

Hermione sucked in a breath as she felt his iron-hinged fingers around her throat, applying enough pressure for it to ache terribly but granting enough leverage so that she could just barely breathe. 

"But I love you," he whispered in her ear, tongue darting out to smear her own blood against her cheek. "I love you so much." 

Hermione's fingers tingled. She wanted to rip his throat out. She didn't want to hear his voice anymore. "No…you don't_." _

His grip around her throat tightened. Her breaths were but squeals now, shallow and quiet. 

"Do not presume to tell me what I love and do not love, darling_." His lips then captured hers, but the fingers around her throat did not loosen. Hermione tried to move, only to find her limbs as heavy as lead. She was suffocating. She was suffocating in this brutal monster's arms. Someone help her… Please…someone help her…_

"Granger!" 

_Hermione forced her eyes open, though she knew she was going to die. That voice…_

"Wake up! Granger!" 

_The fingers around her throat loosened. He stopped kissing her and jerked backward, as if burnt. "What? Why…" Hermione fell to the bed and closed her eyes. She knew his voice. And the monster seemed to as well. "The boy," he whispered. And did Hermione catch a tint of fear? "That boy…"_

"Damn it, Granger, open your eyes!" 

_I'm trying, Malfoy. I'm trying so hard… _

The monster backed away from her, leaving her the only one on the bed. She caught his smirk. "Well my love. It seems that I must leave you for now." 

Then go, you bastard. But she almost didn't catch the monster's voice, for it was getting fainter and fainter. She felt herself sink into the pillows -- literally sink, as if it were quicksand. Her body was numb, her senses shot. But she knew it felt like flying, what she was experiencing. She knew it would lead her back, back to the world of sorrow and beauty. But did she want to go back there? 

Actually, it seemed as if she had no choice, for his hands gripped her wrist and pulled her toward him. And Hermione almost smiled. She loved… 

"GRANGER!" 

Hermione's eyes shot open and she once against found herself in that black darkness. No more red. She wriggled her fingers. No more numbness. "M-Malfoy?" 

He paused, and Hermione could once again feel his hard hands on her shoulders. "Oh my God, Granger, I thought you were --" 

And Hermione could not help herself. She sat up and wrapped her arms tightly around Draco, weeping silently into his shoulder. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…" she whispered between her sobs again and again. 

His body stiffened, his arms lax. But she didn't care how crazy or weird he thought her. She didn't care. He saved her from that monster, so she kept crying silently and whispered without pause, "Thank you, thank you." 

She held him for a long time, knowing that he must have been uncomfortable on his knees with her arms wrapped around his shoulder so harshly. But though he never embraced her back, he didn't pull away either. And she kept whispering, "Thank you, thank you…" 

Finally, as Hermione's voice became hoarse from crying and thanking him, she felt him pat her back awkwardly. She finally pulled away, reluctant to be out of his embrace. His embrace made her feel alive, as if she were a sentient being. _His_ embrace, that monster's embrace, was painful and numbing and so _dominating_. 

"What the hell happened?" Draco asked. Yet despite his words, his voice was cautiously gentle, as if he expected another outburst from her and wished to avoid it if he could. Hermione almost smiled at his reaction. She wished she could see him, see if Draco Malfoy, the proud and cold Draco Malfoy, was burning with embarrassment or not. 

"I…don't know," she replied truthfully, quietly. Though she did know some things. That monster, man, demon desired her for some reason. But…she didn't want to tell Draco that. Not yet. "Something twisted my spine. And I fell to the ground. I saw him, Malfoy." Her voice shook. Draco offered no comfort -- not that she expected him to. So she continued. "He had the most fearsome eyes. The most horrible eyes. And he kept leering at me, telling him to come to him. To come be with him. And…I almost did. I almost did go with him." Tears splashed down her eyes again. 

"Why didn't you?" Draco finally spoke. 

Hermione blinked. "What?" Then she gasped as she felt his hands cover her trembling ones. 

"Why didn't you follow him, Granger?" 

Hermione hesitated. Should she tell him? She must. Draco needed to know of the power he had in this place. She wasn't sure if it was strong or not, his power, but it was still power and influential enough so that the monster backed away at the sound of Draco's voice. And he saved her too. Draco Malfoy saved her, and Hermione did not at all begrudge him for it, especially considering the alternate option of her at that monster's side. Hermione paled at the thought and pushed it aside. "You called. You called to me. And I listened to you instead of him." 

They remained like that for a few moments in silence. Hermione tried to wipe away the tears, and was nearly successful. Draco sat across from her, his hands over hers in a slight gesture of comfort. She wanted to see Draco. She wanted to make sure that he was real. She wanted to make sure that the person with his hands over hers wasn't that monster with those eyes again. She wanted to make sure that the man across from her was Draco, though deep in her heart, Hermione knew it was Draco. It was Draco who fell down with her in Hottsgobin Tower as the clock stuck thirteen. What irony -- her enemy was her greatest source of comfort. 

Then Hermione breathed in. Draco jerked. 

"Do…you hear that?" he asked her in a whisper. "The violins?" 

It was almost inaudible, that lilting song, but Hermione knew it was there. "Yes." 

"What…is it? That song?" Draco said, his voice shaking slightly. "I hate it." 

It was a beautiful song, but Hermione found that she hated it too. She wanted to cover her ears, though she doubted that the song would fade out even the slightest bit. "I want light. I want to see. I hate this darkness." 

"WELL, WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SO!" 

The two both jerked, trying to locate the source of that voice. But it boomed from all around them. 

Suddenly, the chandeliers above them blazed with sharp, white light. One by one, they flickered on with a poof, trailing across the hall one at a time, flooding this room with unbidden, painful light. Hermione and Draco both slapped their hands over their eyes, crying out in indignation and pain. 

"Well, the little lady _did_ say she wanted light." Then it tittered gleefully. 

"You little fuck," Draco snarled, squinting. "Where the hell are you!" 

"HERE." 

Hermione reached out, her fingers gripping Draco's robe as if he were her anchor, and slowly opened her eyes. She then gasped, finding herself staring at one of the most beautiful boys she had ever seen, a boy whose beauty surpassed that of a Veela. 

"Oh my…" she whispered. 

The boy grinned at her, winking almost seductively despite his youngish face and physique. Everything about him oozed sensuality, and Hermione felt herself blush. 

Draco seemed to notice this. He nudged Hermione behind him, as if to protect her, and demanded at the boy, "Who are you?" 

The boy grinned, displaying a shiny row of pointed teeth, and performed a weightless back flip in the air. But Hermione noticed the shackles on the boy's feet, those thick, black, heavy chains that bound him to this castle. Was he trapped here, like them? But the boy bowed, and when he spoke, amusement darkened his voice. "Welcome, Lady Hermione, Sir Malfoy, to my master's abode." 

Hermione's heart jolted. His _master_! She gripped onto Draco more tightly. 

"I don't give a damn about your master," Draco sneered, his arrogance unfailing even against this inhumanly beautiful boy. "I asked who _you_ were. Now answer me, bondsman." 

The boy blinked, the cheeky smile of his sliding down just a fraction of an inch. Draco stared at the boy, and the boy stared back, as if locked in a silent contest of wills. But then the boy regained his cockiness and replied, "Well, if Sir Malfoy insists." He stared at Hermione and again bowed deeply. "My master has been waiting for you, my lady. And I am at your disposal. I beg you to treat this unworthy Puck kindly." 

Hermione's eyes widened. 

"Puck?" Draco demanded skeptically. 

And the boy Puck stared up at Hermione, promise glimmering in his chilly blue eyes. 

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**End Notes**: Ah, sorry about the messed-up sex. I'll try not to go all out so that this fic will be NC-17, since then I'd have to host it on my Skyehawke account. This chapter was actually difficult to write. I hope Hermione wasn't too out-of-character, but I really couldn't think of any other reaction for her with…everything that happened to her. Whoo boy. Please don't be too harsh in your reviews! 


	4. Shattered

**Author's Notes**: Hell of a long time to update, I know. (looks down in shame) But I did update…and better late than never…right? (hopeful smile) I'm currently in the process of re-organizing my thoughts regarding this story. Chapter One has been edited a bit, and the other two chapters will follow the suit. No major revisions, but some things to take out, some things to add.

However, I was too impatient to do all that and decided to post this chapter instead! I hope you all enjoy. Please, please pardon me for my tardiness!

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**Castle of Dreams**  
Chapter 4: Shattered  
By Callisto Callispi

Lavander shuffled through the wind and rain, drawing the edges of the coat closer across her chest. She spared one quick glance up at the town clock and shivered. It was nearing midnight, and she still found no trace of Hermione. Lavender closed her eyes shortly, trying to calm her throbbing heart and trying to sort through the possibilities of what might have happened. She did not consider that Hermione left to a party and got drunk with some of the other Hogwarts boys -- she was a respectable girl and prone to shy away from such things.

Lavender opened her eyes and was surprised to find her hands shaking. What happened to her friend? They were not even close to the red-light district of the province, and this place was one of the safest in the country. Could it be a possibility that Hermione had been kidnapped or… Lavender continued walking, though worry plagued her. She tried to push away the thoughts of rape, of murder, of mutilation. She kept her eyes down on the streets, tracing the blackened moss growing in between the cobbles.

As Hermione was a good friend to her, Lavender wanted to find her and help her from whatever kept her away. However, like a great majority of people, she was also quite scared and wanted to run back to the safety of her hotel room. No matter how safe the city, no matter how Babylonian it seemed, a young woman such as herself had absolutely _no reason_ to be up and alone at night.

Excuses. Lavender scowled in her muffler. She was a damn coward, that's what she was. Hermione would have been up all night, arranging search parties to find any and all missing persons in need. Hermione was an amazing girl and a great friend at that, but she was also very tiring because of her energy and her desire to help. Lavender always felt so diminutive compared to Hermione, even if she was one of her closest friends. Lavender felt as if she was never up-to-par. At times, it annoyed her, especially when she could do nothing to help.

Hermione's energy drew people to her like a flame to a moth. But as Lavender realized with her increasing sense of frustration and anger, getting to close would mean scorching herself in a way that was almost fatal.

Lavender headed back to the hotel, her heels clicking upon the stone sidewalk _Click, clack, click, clack._ The shadows lengthened and eventually drowned the world as the clouds shielded the scanty light of the wickedly curved crescent moon. Without her knowing, her heels tapped more and more quickly upon the stone, her desperation for light and warmth revealing itself in flourishing colors within her steadily panicking brain. She was a grown woman -- there should have been nothing to fear.

But…what about Hermione?

Lavender cried out and broke into a full run toward the hotel, wondering if the buildings that seemed so familiar before were but tricks upon her eyes. Was she going on the right path, was she running in the right direction? No, this was not Babylonia -- this was a monster's playhouse, empty with darkness, filled with tricks and malice.

_Run, run, faster, FASTER!_

The voice was not her own, but she hardly noticed. The terror gripped her, and she obeyed only that the voice told her. She submitted to the panic, and lost her control over her legs, over her mind.

But the demons seemed to wish to be merciful this time. For within seconds of feverish running, she approached the brightly lit hotel, tall and grand. As she walked up the steps, her heart pounding, she nodded toward the doorman, her eyes hot with tears. Thank the gods, she was finally home in the light where the demons could not touch her.

She stepped into the lobby, greeted by the rolling language that was so unlike English. But Lavender frowned slightly. Something was amiss. People were running, intently attempting discreetness as if trying to give the impression that nothing was wrong. Uniformed hotel officials spoke into little gadgets with each other, as if they were spies.

Lavender walked up to the front clerk, a woman with wide brown eyes and thin lips. Lavender recognized her from her first day in the country, remembering how she greeted the NEWT students in English.

"Pardon me, but what is going on here?" Lavender asked the woman, disrupting her from filling out many forms with her quivering peacock quill. "Why are the men running about?"

The woman smiled. It was a fake one. "Nothing at all, miss. We just had a mishap with dinner preparations, is all."

Lavender did not question any further as the clerk suddenly spoke out something very rapidly, very urgently to a running bellhop in her native language. Then, she turned back to Lavender and ushered to go upstairs, assuring that there was no problem and that she should take a hot bath in order to evade illness. When Lavender stared down at herself, she noticed she was soaked to the bone, running about in the cold rain like that.

As soon as she bathed, Lavender watched outside the window, surprised to see snow falling so heavily. She made it just in time to the hotel, it seemed. It looked as if a blizzard would hit them. Dear God, where was Hermione? She couldn't possibly survive outside with what she was wearing. Lavender sat on the ledge next to the window and gathered her knees to her chest, the candle flame wavering at her feet. Hermione's empty bed in the room troubled her, as if an invisible hook tugged on her ankle, her strands of hair, her fingers. But when Lavender looked down at her feet, as her hands rose to pat her hair, every part of her body had been conveniently untouched. But afterward, the air would seem so much colder, despite the fire in the hearth. Her breaths seemed a bit tighter, more constricted.

Lavender hugged her knees more closely. She wanted Hermione with her. Lavender hadn't realized how much she had depended on Hermione -- her unfailing logic that assured them both that such things as malignant spirits of children whose broken faces bled that innocent (and therefore most evil) hate did not exist. Because that was what Lavender saw that day in the Tower -- the day that Hermione disappeared.

It had a face as pale as winter, eyes as black as coal colored slightly burgundy with the right light.

Lavender couldn't stand the solitude any more. The emptiness pushed in all around her like real substance, as if she were trapped inside a mattress slowly being stuffed with thousands upon thousands of half-broken feathers. She couldn't stand the hardship of dealing with Hermione's disappearance herself. Slipping into her robe, Lavender ran toward Professor Jethro's room.

He looked surprised to see her, hair wet and breathing heavily. Lavender, again, was struck by how handsome he was, how sharp his eyes were. They were the eyes of a cat, though far more sentient and far more aware.

"Are you all right, Miss Brown?" he asked, eyes narrowed slightly in concern, and Lavender slowly felt some of her fear slipping away little by little, warmth instead replacing the coldness that had unknowingly gripped her heart ever since she began this trip. Even his voice affected her -- perhaps she had fallen in love with him, though the idea amused her to no end.

"I apologize for disturbing you, professor," she began slowly, "but I was wondering if…Hermione had returned yet. I went out for a bit, but I didn't see her."

The professor's lips curved downward into a frown. "I haven't either. She hasn't returned, I believe. The hotel clerks would have notified me if she had. Miss Brown -- has she said anything to you? About where she would go? About where she would be? When she would return?"

Lavender's eyes glazed over. That small shame flooded her throat. "She told me she would go to Hottsgobin Tower." She noted the dark disappointment coloring the professor's face and despaired. "I'm so sorry, professor… I couldn't stop her. I wanted to go with her. I really did. But I was…I was…"

"Scared?" he interjected coldly.

The backs of Lavender's eyes pricked. She nodded, her face coloring with shame, though she could not figure out whether her shame resulted from Hermione's disappearance or from Professor Jethro's displeasure.

"And did you go to that Tower this night, Miss Brown?"

That cold wave of fear washed over her, leaving her trembling and freezing from the inside out. "I…tried. I was scared, Professor, but I tried. The doors were closed, locked with iron as thick as my body. I sought out the officials, and I told them what had passed, but even they could not budge the locks." With a dull sense of dread, Lavender remembered their faces, how surprised they were that the iron did not slide off the door. The professor's expression, though none of his features seemed to have altered, seemed stormier, angrier. "They told me it was the cold, the ice. That the lock had frozen over, thus it wouldn't move."

The professor's eyes darkened. He opened the door further open and ushered a surprised Lavender in. "Please, enter. We must speak."

Lavender stood rigidly. Enter the professor's room? Entering a professor's room would surely arouse the nastiest rumors, especially from the Slytherin group. Though no matter how unorthodox the request, she felt her feet move toward him, as if some unknown force pulled her inside. Before she knew it, she was already inside and the professor had closed the door behind her.

**-x-x-**

Draco remembered seeing very little sun that day when he accompanied his father to that white room of the hospital. The sky was an overcast grey and the air cold, even though it was only late August. As autumn approached, so did the rain. The fog had quickly thickened over the moors. The road was a damp, slushy mess, sucking in the wheels of their carriage every as if hungry for the dry, hard wooden shell after bloating itself on water.

Draco neglected to sleep on the eight-hour trip, and he was exhausted. His body and mind were weary but an ongoing song kept tinkling in his head. When he closed his eyes and darkness engulfed him, he heard her voice and watched her fingers delicately tap the piano keys. Impeccable as always, the woman, both in dreams and in reality: fair hair coiled elegantly on top of her head, skin as white and flawless as marble, movements graceful and deliberate. She always wore white. He only saw her, her body glimmering with an inner light against the darkness. Draco could have sworn she was alone. But on top of the gentle hum of the piano, he also heard quiet moans of violins playing in the dark background.

He hated the music.

_Clink. Clink._

The seat jumped and rolled about with the carriage. Draco's eyelids got heavier and heavier, and the lullaby started once more.

_Clink. Clink._ Her long, shapely fingernails tapped the keys, and the soft dollop of music followed. She played slowly, deliberately, making sure every note was clear. Her nails tapped continuously on the smooth white keys of the piano. _Clink, clink, clink, clink…_a noise that was as if crystals were shattering upon glass.

It was an all too familiar sound, the breaking of glass. He did admit, however, that it hadn't been as musical as this. Angry words and shrill screaming always accompanied the shatters. He also had to admit that the flawless woman playing the piano was not the image that remained with him of his mother.

A smell of roses drenched her chambers as of late. Perhaps a premonition of her name, Narcissa always smelled like flowers. Delicate crystal bottles of specially saturated rose water from France always filled her washroom cabinets. However, the fights got louder and her steady flow of male visitors slowly ceased to nothingness. Draco remembered with stunning clarity that cold winter day, just three days into his holidays when his father dropped in his hand a ring of small, shiny silver keys and told him that he was to lock all doors to the mansion upon it being closed. His mother, Lucius proclaimed in a voice devoid of all emotion and with a face the color of pallid grey, was not to leave her private chambers in the west wing of the house. She was neither allowed on the ground floor for the glass of the windows were not strong enough to withstand a chair crashing through them.

Draco visited his mother, hiding his keys within the deepest folds of his robes like a reluctant jailer. She did not speak but sat straight-backed in a satin-covered chair facing the window. The pale morning light managing to penetrate through the clouds accentuated the delicate bones of her pale face.

_Mother._

That single word stuck to his mind, dragged out even through his thoughts. But he stood by the door, hands deep within his robes and clutching the keys so tightly that the palms of his hands were slippery with sweat. She did not even turn to face him.

_Why?_

Roses engulfed his senses. His mind spun as if trapped in an endless maze of hundreds of thousands of roses. The impeccable crystal bottles of rose water lay shattered on the smooth wooden floor. The perfume drenched her cushions and the sofa. The bed sheets were torn.

"Get me out."

Draco jumped. His breath shot out of his body and his heart started racing. So quiet and yet so…tranquilly _angry_. It was not the voice of his usual soft-spoken mother, who had never ordered for anything, but politely inquired as was the aristocratic fashion of late.

"Father said --"

Narcissa did not even turn toward him. "For the love of God. When will you get a backbone, Draco?"

Draco stepped back as if slapped. His eyes widened, and his heart skipped at beat. His first impulse was to cry, but he blinked back the hot tears that threatened to flood his eyes. To his second impulse, he yielded. He calmly collected his composure and coldly stared at the woman was supposed to be his mother. For that moment, he thought that he understood what his father was doing. His mother was always an independent, flighty creature, but her behavior as of late was atrocious. If shutting her in and placing her under house arrest was the way to fix her back up, so be it.

"Madame, you have stunned me. I had come here to discuss changes in regards to your living arrangements, but I see that Father has acted wisely. You shall never again speak to me as you have recently; you are my mother, and you will treat me with the due respect that is expected of a mother to her son."

Draco walked out, back stiff, her last sensible words creeping to his ear.

"_My God, Lucius has made you his at last…"_

The next week brought a few nasty surprises. They had been taking tea one minute and rushed to the hospital the next. Lucius bit his knuckles when the doctor told him of the damage done.

The shattering of the glass had made them jump from their chairs. Their steaming tea cups laid abandoned in their saucers. Lucius afterward cursed and kicked numerous house elves for leaving Narcissa unattended for such a length of time. Draco did not speak. His face was as white as a sheet as he regarded the great hole in the window and the red stains grazing the broken glass by the floor.

She laid almost dead in the snow below. There was so much red pooling underneath her, though there was no evidence of her cutting herself before. It originated from the mouth, said the doctor later, where she had bit her tongue awkwardly from the fall. She would have a difficult time talking -- even the most effective magical treatments could not mend the tongue's complex net of nerves that she had bitten off. Several of her perfectly shaped white teeth were also shattered and cut the inside of her mouth to ribbons. Her situation, however, said the doctor, was not particularly fatal except that her spine was damaged, though that could be quickly rectified.

The Mediwizards under Lucius's payroll arrived almost immediately and carted her off to the nearest private hospital. Draco and Lucius were left watching until their own carriage arrived to pick them up, and during the ride, neither of them spoke. Draco did not know what Lucius was thinking, but Draco could not erase the image of his mother flat on her back in the snow with her head tilted to the side and blood slowly seeping into the snow around her head. It stained her cheeks and her fair hair in the boldest color.

She lied there in the coldest winter of his thoughts, re-visiting him over and over again during the darkest of nights when he often re-thought his life. She was _always_ there, her skin as pale as the snow and the bloody halo encircling her exquisitely proportioned face. She had fallen from the sky, his tortured angel, and if he narrowed his eyes just at the right angle, he could see how the wings were torn nerve by nerve from her back.

The hospital room had been desolately quiet. Though Lucius hired someone to decorate her amply large quarters, the fact that she was in a hospital was blatantly obvious by the cords and the needles slithering from the skin of her arms and cheeks as if they were tentacle-like extensions of her body. The strong smell of antiseptic and chemical medicines permeated the very air, sanitizing and mucking it at the same time. It was almost as oppressive as the whispers of prayer and the quiet sobbing that haunted the quiet halls of the hospital day and night. The bright pink roses settled upon the mahogany coffee table almost seemed sacrilegious against the dreary grey and white of the outside and the inside. White walls, silver curtains, grey carpet, black chairs. Clean. Dull. Conventional. All prepared especially for a quiet death in a conservatively decorated sleeping quarter.

Draco spent mostly all of his winter holidays in that small little room with his father for company, though that was hardly company in itself. And of course, he remained in the company of his mother, who slept on and on and on and on and on as if she were trying to reach the blackness of death in her sleep.

Narcissa never died. But nor did she ever truly awaken.

She opened her eyes a week before Draco had to leave for Hogwarts.

But as Draco gripped her thin fingers, she merely stared at (more like _through_) him with those empty eyes and turned her head. Her hand slipped from his, and to the air, it seemed, she began murmuring things that made Draco's skin break out in goose bumps.

They performed more and more tests, and through it all, Narcissa talked and talked and talked, slurring her words and constantly drooling from the corner of her pale lips as her tongue was not as efficient as it was before. But Draco would have preferred that she talk to him or at least his father, not to the woman who always sat upon the ceiling or juggled black arachnids and reputedly claimed (through Narcissa) herself to be a dancer for a circus that ceased to function over fifty years ago.

Draco feared leaving his mother alone in her delicate condition, but he feared being with her more. The manner in which she spoke was so vulgar and slurred, and her conversations were littered with such impossibly disturbing themes.

One time when Draco couldn't stand to hear more about how Mary-Jane, the ex-circus dancer, once cut off the testicles of a bull that killed a Spanish matador, he left the room with a queasy look on his face. His father, however, hollered for him to return with a nurse to the room immediately, and Draco obeyed, dragging a green-robed woman with him. He heard screaming as he approached the door, and fell to the ground on his knees at the scene before him.

Narcissa had torn off her clothes and had ripped off all of the tubes in her arms and was leaning against the corner of the wall with three great, blood-covered needles quaking in her hands. Lucius could not get near her for fear of being stabbed in the eye, and the nurse had to perform a disarming curse.

It was a disgrace, the whole scene, especially as Narcissa burst into tears and squealed childishly that Mary-Jane had eaten the testicles without cooking them, and when Narcissa tried to explain how dangerous raw meat was, Mary-Jane called her a thousand awful names and tried to open her mouth to force-feed her the heart of a cow she had in her pocket.

"But Narcissa, dear, there was no one in the room with you except for your husband, and especially not a Mary-Jane," said the nurse gently while stroking Narcissa's hair to calm her from her extraordinarily childish outburst.

Draco watched the whole thing, unbelieving that this was passing. Lucius remained standing, however, and gazed coldly at the shaking woman that used to be his wife. His fists shook at his sides and without another word, he whipped around and walked out of the hospital and into the cold, winter air.

Another great bump of the carriage jolted Draco from his reverie, though his mind was groggy and hazy and he thought for that brief moment, he could see the world of his dreams in one eye and the world of the living through the other.

"It's dawn. You've not slept," came Lucius's cold voice.

Draco's gray eyes were dull and drowsy. Shadows drenched the coach, and the shapes danced about them. "I couldn't sleep."

Lucius opened his mouth to respond, but Draco could not hear his father's voice. Instead the dizzy clinking of the piano whirled around and around in his head, as if he were trapped in a brightly lit carnival of half-mad ringmasters and fanged clowns.

"_And were you aware, sir, that your wife was in a highly disturbed state at the time of her fall?"_

Draco's eyes slipped shut. It was as if that horrible day would stay with him forever, spinning and spinning in his head like a broken black-and-white movie reel:

His father's whirl of pale, blond hair and his fluttering cloak as he ran out of the hospital… Draco's own frenzied heart… The anguished roar torn from Lucius's throat as the psychiatrist shook his head pityingly from behind his desk…

Riding toward that same grey place, Draco at last slipped into the void of sleep, though who had said that an oblivion did not host its own glittery-eyed monsters?

**-x-x-**

_He stared at Hermione and again bowed deeply. "My master has been waiting for you, my lady. And I am at your disposal. I beg you to treat this unworthy Puck kindly." _

_Hermione's eyes widened. _

"_Puck?" Draco demanded skeptically. _

_And the boy Puck stared up at Hermione, promise glimmering in his chilly blue eyes._

**X**

Puck. Puck. Puck.

It couldn't be. It _couldn't_ be. Months… Years… He was forgotten. He didn't exist anymore for her.

But here he was. The cold blue eyes, so light that they gleamed pearly grey or pale green depending on the light. The shiny black hair with thick, rich curls. The Boticelli smirk.

She was mesmerized. She was horrified.

Such beauty. Such confidence.

The boy Puck.

Suspended in air as he always was.

As real as she and Draco.

"Ow!" squealed Hermione, trying to wrench her throbbing arm from Draco's fingers. She pulled and pulled until he finally yielded and let her go. Hermione breathed out. Covering her bruising forearm with her hand, she demanded shrilly, "What is _wrong_ with you? That really hurt!"

But the look in Draco's stormy grey eyes stopped her from saying anything else. Suddenly, Hermione's knees grew weak as if the wind were knocked out of her body.

"Don't," he murmured lowly. "You'll never be able to look away from him."

Hermione did not question Draco how he knew, though she would regret it heavily later on. But she did cast her eyes down. Her heart raced. How? How could he be here? He couldn't be real. This all had to be a horrible, horrible dream!

But…

Somehow, Hermione knew with a sickening drop of her stomach that this wasn't a dream. Not in the least.

They had to get out. _She_ had to get out. Even if she had to throw herself out of the window, just like the heroines of old Victorian terror novels, she had to get out. The desire to break free of the castle was overwhelming, almost bordering on the edge of obsession, and Hermione was shocked that Draco did not express the same longing on his face. But then again, he probably didn't feel as chained to the castle as she did. She was so tired and fatigued and could hardly lift her feet.

Her eyes flitted around the grand room, probing for some sort of an exit. The mahogany French doors were all sealed with golden chains, each link as thick as her wrist. The locks binding them closed were impressively huge, almost as big as her head, and certainly impossible to break by force alone. She faced Puck, a chill running down her spine. Panic nibbled at her every nerve ending, and Hermione tried her damnest to calm herself. She just had to keep her mind focused.

Her control, however, was as easily destroyed as it was built. It was the slightest touch, brushing like a winter wind across her cheek. Yet she felt it -- it had been something substantial, like a blood-soaked feather or a slimy, amphibious fingernail. Hermione whipped around, clapping her hand over her face, but as she expected, she was left physically untouched.

The panic rose up once more.

Where was she? Why her? What were they _doing_ here?

"It's an honor to receive you, my Lady Hermione. My master has always prided his lovely wife, and I see now the truth of his words. You are most welcome, my Lady. _Most_ welcome," Puck said smoothly with flair.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. _Wife?_

Puck continued to stare at her. He smiled widely, making his face seem more kittenish. The corners of his eyes crinkled together and sharpened his already penetrating gaze.

"T-there must be some mistake. I…I've never been married. I've never even had a serious boyfriend. I'm -- I'm only seventeen! That's not possible!" She knew she was babbling but couldn't help it. Her? Married? Preposterous!

"He has missed his wife dearly," said Puck, ignoring Hermione completely. "Upon your arrival, word has been sent to him. He is currently abroad, meeting a few foreign physicians. Though we are surprised, however, with the choice of company with which you have chosen to arrive." Puck stared piercingly at Draco.

Hermione was speechless. She was so confused. Was she mad? Was she in an alternate universe?

"I see my presence isn't welcome here. Send me back."

Puck did not even turn to Draco. Instead, he said loftily, "I am but a humble servant to my master."

But Draco was, as ever, the pompous asshole he was born to be. "I don't give a damn who you are. I demand to be released from this hellhole and be granted a safe journey to where I had been." His voice was chilly and his words sharp.

Puck's eyes flashed briefly neon green, and Draco unwittingly took a small step back. The chains on the floating boy's legs rattled slightly. Those chains -- was he a captive just like they were?

"No one leaves the castle without the Master's consent," Puck hissed out.

The chamber suddenly darkened and a strange, unbidden wind blew through the halls. Hermione's heart raced painfully in his chest, her stomach hurting as if sharp pieces of glass were stabbing her from the inside out. The darkness got thicker, the wind colder, and the chandeliers above swung back and forth, back and forth with the phantom wind, squeaking as the old, rusty chains once more acquainted themselves with movement after centuries of frozen silence. Only Puck, suspended in mid-air with his eyes glowing brighter and brighter against the impending darkness, seemed unaffected by this freak change. Shadows flickered here and there as Draco's fists started to shake with fear.

Hermione could not take her eyes off of Puck, whose boyish visage soon gave way to shadow and his skin paled against the brightness of his wide, demonic eyes. He looked like a life-size doll, held taught by the strings of an unknown entity, spiritless and dangling…

Unbidden tears pricked her eyes, and she couldn't even tell when Draco grabbed her arm and started to run away (to where, she did not know, but vaguely remembered him dragging her toward the back wall).

Draco yelled at her to get a hold of herself, to not fall into Puck's spell, but all Hermione could do was look into the eyes of the boy Puck and feel nothing but sorrow.

Howls and screams filled her ears, and they were not just the ones of Draco. Like a blot of ink, the black thing grew and expanded behind the boy Puck, and as it reached out its hands in pursue of the two scrambling masses of human flesh Hermione finally turned and ran with Draco, tears running down her face though for what reason, she could not understand.

The glass shattered in front of them into a million different pieces, glittering and flashing out like forgotten stars in the vast depth of outer space. The dreams came back to her, and Hermione fell just as she did numerous times before, though she relinquished no more screams.

This time, there was no turning back, and the hands reached for her. But they didn't get her for she fell too quickly, and the crystal droplets of her tears fell together with the shards of glass.

Like Alice she once more fell into the rabbit hole, into the mad house of huge teacups and of mannequins all resembling that same haunting face of the boy Puck.

**X**

_It happened all too fast. _

_He had dreamt it nights before, but ignored everything to grasp onto the quiet as it slipped through his fingers like water. _

_The glass shattered. The sky shattered. It rained tears. It snowed shimmering flakes of ice. _

_An angel fell into the cold, cold river. _

_He remained, watching, as she flapped her white wings to escape the current. She never did. _

_Sitting in the hospital room with his comatose mother, he could only think of that dream. _

_Narcissa did not even speak to her own son for three days after waking up. But Draco preferred that she had not spoken to him at all because the only thing that she had said to him was, "Like mother like son."_

He grabbed Hermione's hand and ran toward the back wall, his heart almost bursting with the desire to escape this madhouse. To escape Puck. To escape the memories his feverish mind yielded.

The window, frosted with ice so that he could not see outside, was the only that was not barred.

"Hold on," he whispered raggedly, but he did not say it to Hermione. He said it to himself.

Draco held up his free arm to protect his face, and with all the force he could muster, he slammed against the window and for a second, before falling into the emptiness of space, they flew in the air as the glass shattered all around them.

* * *

**End Notes**: End of chapter… I want to know everyone's thoughts! I hope this is enough of a horror-slash-suspense story for you all… There are some disturbing scenes, I'll grant you that, and the story will only get darker… So just a precaution to readers: if you are sensible to stories such as these, please stop reading. I do not, however, intend to write this as a story-without-a-plot. It does have a plot, and some interesting twists and turns.

So please review and let me know what you all think! Suggestions, criticism, peculiar anecdotes, and juicy confessions are all welcome! (And, of course, anything else you can devote your appreciated time to write down.) Hehe.


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